


Of the Children of the Ori

by NebulousMistress



Series: The Red Book [7]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Gen, red thistles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 10:24:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11553231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NebulousMistress/pseuds/NebulousMistress
Summary: Origin spreads through the Milky Way. The red thistles mark the Prior's footsteps.





	Of the Children of the Ori

**Author's Note:**

> Major Lorne still wore his mission gear, his patch proclaiming him a member of SG-11. “Mission got scrapped,” he said. “Red thistles at the gate. Which doesn't make sense, it's supposed to be an uninhabited moon, why would Priors take an interest?"

The gate opened on the world with no name. The Prior stepped out into the small clearing surrounded by overgrown forest. Trees ascended far above and the ground was damp with moss, with ferns, with undergrowth grown from the spores of a thousand worlds trod eons ago by the Heretics.

The Prior shook out his cloak, flicking the fabric into the wind. Heretics would not be the only ones to tread this world. The faithful would tread here. The faithful would spread here. The faithful would speak here.

But there were no roads on this world, no paths through the forest that bordered on jungle with its thickness and its ominousness. Nothing of import dwelt on the ground.

The Prior looked up into the trees.

There they were. Those who would be faithful watched him from far above, heads cocked in curiosity. So the Heretics had not heeded the minds here, nor had those who followed the Heretics into their darkness. The people here had never been heard.

But could they listen?

The Prior shook his cloak again. The Heretics would not be the only ones to seed this world.

He would return in time. Perhaps the people here would listen then.

*****

The gate opened on the world with no name. The Prior stepped out into the small clearing littered with red thistles. Spiny vines tinged in red climbed the taller undergrowth, reaching up toward a sun forever blocked by the oppressive treetops.

The Prior looked up into the trees and saw those who had never been heard. Their voices were lost in the cacophony of the jungle, wordless cries the Heretics would have ignored for eternity.

But the Prior held out a hand and called forth the holy fire of the Ori.

And he spoke.

_This is the fire of the Ori. It brings life to the barren wastes, cleanses the weak and the dead from those who would rise. It remakes the sky, burning brightly in the darkness of the Void. It feeds your world as it feeds mine, our stars burning by the grace of the Ori. We give thanks to the Ori for their fire. The pain of its touch reminds us we are alive, cleanses us of our weakness._

The Prior watched as the people above came closer, descending the trees to listen.

_The Ori hear you as they hear all children of fire. They marvel at your beauty, dance to your songs, delight at your clever tricks. You are children of fire and you are heard._

The people gathered around him, on him, near him, all listening intently.

All but one.

The eldest, the wisest, the one known as He Who Sits Highest, looked down on the Prior and dared to challenge him with questions.

 _Fire has taken much from us_ , said He Who Sits Highest. _Fire steals our young, destroys our homes, fells the trees. It descends from the sky, as you claim, but it leaves destruction in its wake. The forest does not bring life to the living, it brings death. Are we then children of death? What of you, then? What are you, oh Pale One?_

The Prior chuckled. He welcomed these questions. A faith untested was a weak faith. Only through the fire of doubt could the faithful rise with any true power.

 _Fire is not random_ , the Prior said. _Fire is destruction for without destruction there can be no new growth. How would the forest grow without the death of the tallest trees? The young trees would never see light. The ground beneath would be bereft of change. You feed what grows beneath, would you watch your labors wither and die in the darkness? Without fire the trees would age and fall, ripping the forest apart._

He Who Sits Highest humphed at the Prior but did not refute his claim. It was true enough. He Who Sits Highest remembered the last fire that tore through the forest, consumed the elder trees, scorched the ground, sent them all flying for safety. The youngest among them, still helpless without their mothers, died quickly and were mourned. But the trees regrew into New Growth and brought with them rare fruits and new leaves.

 _Death, pain, mourning, loss, these are all a part of life_ , the Prior continued. _But the fire within us all ensures us these things are not without meaning. You are all children of fire, as am I. The Ori treasure us all. Their words are Origin. Hear me and I will teach them to you._

*****

The gate opened onto M2X-884. Men in green-gray uniforms with weapons in their hands stepped into the small clearing filled with red thistles and spiny brambles. The trees around them towered high into the air, the small jungle clearing barely wide enough to breach the canopy to reveal the sky overhead.

“We've got red thistles,” said one. “Fan out. Check for any Ori activity. Priors, a base, hidden worshipers, anything.”

“Without machetes this'll be a real short trip,” said another. “It's a jungle in here.”

A third man groaned at the bad joke and tried to squirm his way into the jungle. There were no paths, no trails, no roads, no sign of habitation in the dense jungle.

And then he heard noises above. “Oh, hey, look, birds,” he said.

Above in the trees there were birds. A flock of orange and white parrots stood out against the dark blue-green leaves of the jungle trees. They chattered among themselves, eyes kept on the four strange men who came through the gate and tried to press into the jungle like prey animals. One bird sat above the rest, three red thistles still on their long stems tucked into the feathers of his long white tail.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” said a fourth man. “Maybe we should go.”

“You always have a bad feeling,” said the first man.

“And I'm always right.”

The birds watched as the men took notes on pages, as one made the paper look like a red thistle using red and green sticks. Then they picked up everything they brought with them and left through the gate.

And He Who Sits Highest had an idea. He crushed one of the red berries taken from the New Growth and spread its juice on his feathers. His beak dripped red with juice as his feathers turned as red as the Ori's fire. The red thistles bobbed from his tail as he flew up to sit highest in the trees and shriek praises to the Ori for bringing them this new idea.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [tumblr](http://nebulousmistress.tumblr.com/) where you can find a hundred little fanfics I never posted here. Check it out, drop a line, maybe dare me to write something for you.


End file.
